


How to turn your vagabond witcher into a homebody

by Apuzzlingprince



Series: Witcher Fanfics [6]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Oral Sex, Poverty, Sex Toys, Shaving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-10
Updated: 2018-03-10
Packaged: 2019-03-24 21:21:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13819683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apuzzlingprince/pseuds/Apuzzlingprince
Summary: He didn’t notice the headlights in time to evade the vehicle barrelling toward him. A dull pain blossomed in his leg and he toppled over, slamming into the asphalt hard enough to bloody his nose and smash the bottle of bourbon he’d been gifted. He groaned, writhed, rubbed his leg, and raised his head just enough to see that he’d been hit by a red Lamborghini. Some rich asshole, no doubt, and Geralt knew immediately there was no possibility of getting a new bottle of bourbon out of them. Groaning, he lifted himself from the ground and picked up his plastic bag, hobbling for the sidewalk.“Hey, wait a second!” A man had leapt out the car and run after him. “I’m terribly sorry, sir, are you alright?”Geralt turned to frown at them. It was an old man. Black hair with hints of grey, black eyes, pale skin, and muttonchops. He didn’t seem to groom himself very well, which was surprising for a rich guy.





	How to turn your vagabond witcher into a homebody

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote another Modern AU, simply because I was in the mood for one. In this particular fic, Geralt is a penniless vagabond and Regis is a multimillionaire CEO of a medical and diagnostic laboratory business. It centres around Regis, Dettlaff, and Geralt, so other characters (like Dandelion and Syanna) are only mentioned in passing. And despite Syanna being mentioned, this is pre-Ciri; I just added Syanna because... idk, I just like her and Regis being salty about her, haha. But that makes her very young in this fic, so Dett and Syanna are only friends.
> 
> If that sounds interesting to you, have a read! Hope you enjoy it.

Geralt stared morosely at the handful of crowns left in his wallet. There were five, in total; enough to get him instant noodles and a six pack of cheap beer, but not much else. It certainly wasn’t enough to sustain him until his next job, and he hadn’t any money in his bank account to fall back on. 

This was, unfortunately, far from the first time he had found himself in this situation. Working a dying profession meant Geralt often struggled to find jobs and was grievously underpaid for what jobs he did find. He scrimped and saved where he could, even skipped meals just to have a little extra cash at the end of each month, but it didn’t do him any good; the money always ran out, eventually, and then he would find himself sleeping in alleyways at night and sitting in libraries during the day, searching frantically for any and all work he was qualified to do. On the odd occasion, provided he didn’t indicate his real profession, he could convince people to hire him for maintenance and cleaning and such – small jobs that would pay enough to get him a few bites of food. This had saved him from starvation on several occasions.

Currently, he had no means of obscuring his queer cat eyes from potential employers and the nearest library wouldn’t be open until Monday. It was Friday evening. As he was hungry, thirsty, and tired, he would have to spend what little cash he had before Monday in order to survive the weekend, and he likely wouldn’t have enough left over for the bus. Searching for work over the past few weeks had tired him out and he hadn’t even managed to secure a single job; all the work he’d sought had either been picked up by other witchers or resolved through the use of a firearm. Bothersome, but not unexpected. Most jobs in built up cities like Novigrad concerned beasts like Nekkers, which were generally easy to deal with, provided the pack was small and one had access to a rifle (many people had died attempting to deal with larger Nekker nests themselves, as no one ever listened to the PSA’s given out about calling a witcher to deal with larger infestations. Saving a buck was a priority).

He closed his wallet and slid it into his back pocket, considering the supermarket across the street. He could get an eight pack of noodles for a couple of coins. Maybe two, if he chose the exceptionally cheap ones. As long as he was careful with how much he spent, he would have just enough left over for a six pack of Viziman Champion. A vile beer, even to witcher taste buds, but strong enough to get him blitzed after four or so bottles. He could do with the distraction from his current circumstances, and it would help him sleep through the hustle and bustle of Novigrad at night. 

He went in, selected his beer and noodles, and paid at the counter. He received a few cents of change, which he decided he would use to make a phone call in the morning (to Dandelion, perhaps; the man wouldn’t have enough money to support him, starving artist that he was, but he would at least have a couch to spare). He made his way to a nearby park and took a couple of gulps of water from the water fountain, then set himself up at a bench and ate one of his packets of noodles. There were teenagers having a late night celebration at one of the outdoor grills that had been installed in the park recently. They glanced periodically over at him, made it clear they had noticed him and were talking about him, but Geralt didn’t pay them any mind; he was used to staring. Most people didn’t go walking around with weapons attached to their back, after all. Being a witcher meant he was licensed to do so, and he was one of the few.

On his third beer, one of the teenagers, coerced by his friends, wandered over and wrung his hands a few feet from Geralt. After a short, awkward silence, Geralt sighed and put his drink aside, glancing at the boy.

“What?”

“You’re a witcher, right?” asked the boy, blurting out each of his words. Geralt could practically smell the sweat on his palms.

“Yeah,” said Geralt, turning away from the boy so to not further intimidate him. “Do you need a witcher for something?”

“No. We, er…” The boy stumbled over his words. “We were w-wondering if you, uh, you wanted to join our party. We’ve never spoken to a witcher before.”

Geralt glanced at his half-empty bottle of beer. “Guess you’re hoping for a couple of stories?”

“Yeah. I mean, if that’s okay. If it’s not, we’ll leave you alone.”

Geralt picked up his bottle, swallowed what remained in three large gulps, and threw the bottle into the grass. “Fine.” He retrieved his plastic bag of noodles and beer from the ground. “As long as I get some barbecue too.”

“O-of course,” said the boy, griming broadly. “I’ll get you a plate!”

Geralt followed the boy to where his friends had congregated and threw his belongings, including his guns and blades (the group relaxed perceptively once they were out of Geralt’s reach), onto the grass beside the stone grill. A plate was handed to him, which he filled with a generous amount of sausage and steak before seating himself at their table.

“So,” said a girl at his side, leaning close to him. It was clear she was trying to get a good look at his eyes. “What’s your name, mister witcher?”

“Geralt,” said Geralt after swallowing a mouthful of sausage. He'd barely paused to chew.

“Ohh, the Geralt that cured the Striga?” asked another girl, who was clearly very inebriated. Her eyes were so bloodshot that they were more red than white. Probably high on fisstech too, then.

“The very one.”

“Whao! What was it like?” asked the girl. “I mean, were you scared at any point? I hear you almost died! Had your jugular ripped out or something!”

If his jugular had been ripped out, he _would_ be dead, but he didn't correct her. It would be an exercise in futility to argue with the logic of a tweaker. “No, I wasn't scared," he said instead. "Killing monsters is my job. Wouldn’t be much of a witcher if they frightened me.”

“Oh, yeah, yeah. Obviously.” The girl nodded vigorously. She then, wobbling precariously, retrieved a plastic cup from the end of the table and filled it with Rivian bourbon and coke. She ended up spilling a significant amount on herself and the table and handed it to Geralt while it was only half-full, but Geralt thanked her anyway.

“That’s Jessica, by the way,” piqued up the boy from earlier, pointing at his inebriated friend. “I’m Jason. The girl next to you is Toussaint – which is a really dumb name, but I’m not shitting you.” The girl named Toussaint shot him a glare. “Then there’s Alfred, Bruce, Richard, Alexandria, and Chloe.”

Geralt nodded in greeting to each of them. “What are you celebrating?” he asked, cutting his steak into four sections.

“It’s my eighteenth birthday,” announced Richard. “We were gonna do a bonfire, but you have to get a permit or something for that and it just takes too fucking long. Like, _months_.”

“Could’ve gone beyond the wall,” said Geralt. “There aren’t any monsters near the entrances. Few people even live out there.”

“Fuck no!” Richard raised his hand in a gesture of objection. “My aunt used to go fishing in a lake near the wall and she ended up getting killed by a drowner! I’ll never risk it. I’ll stay in Novigrad forever.”

Geralt arched an eyebrow. “You'd be one of the few, then. Most aren't content to spend their entire lives here.”

“That was hyperbole,” said Richard, scowling. “If I wanna go somewhere, I'll just take a plane or the subway. Besides, what’s worth seeing outside the walls? It’s just trees and water. We have plenty of parks with those sorts of things and we have indoor centres for stuff like snow. I’m not missing out.”

Geralt didn’t agree; he found the centres to be significantly different to the real thing, no matter how ‘genuine’ they advertised themselves to be, but he didn’t say as much. He wasn’t about to encourage teenagers, who were known to do crazy things on a whim, to go exploring beyond the walls. People who did that generally didn’t live long.

When he finished his bourbon, someone else, with significantly steadier hands, refilled it for him.

“What’s it like out there, anyway?” asked Alfred, who was a bespectacled boy with messy black hair and green eyes. “You’ve been out there a bunch, I bet.”

“I have,” said Geralt. He licked traces of cola off his lips. “Describe it in one word for you: dangerous.”

“But if you bring guns with you-“

“Still dangerous. Not all monsters fall to gunfire and there are outlaws to worry about. One of those people get your hands on you and you’ll be sent home in pieces.” After they had finished extorting money from their victims loved ones, of course. 

The entire group shivered at his words.

“That’s fucked,” whispered Richard.

Geralt drank a mouthful of bourbon before he continued speaking. The more he drank, the more conversational he felt. “Ask me something less dreary, then.”

“How about a contract?” suggested Jason.  

“Alright,” said Geralt, popping a portion of steak into his mouth to drive away the sickly-sweet taste of the coke infused bourbon. “Well,” he continued after a moments thought. “I fought a Zeugl a while back. Most disgusting job I ever had.”

Everyone at the table leaned closer to listen to his tale and Geralt felt a swell of pleasure at their interest. It was almost always the teenagers and kids that demonstrated curiosity in his profession. Adults weren’t nearly open-minded enough to approach him.

(Unfortunately, the adults were the ones with all the money).

He told them in great detail every disgusting feature of the story. His audience revelled in their own revulsion, as teenagers are wont to do. By the time he had finished, he’d polished off two more cups of bourbon, finished his steak, and was having to squint to see his company through the fog enveloping his mind. He would probably end up falling asleep in the park if he wasn’t careful.

“Anyway,” he said, having lost his trail of thought. “Didn’t manage to get the smell off me for three days. It’d take a lot to convince me to go after another Zeugl after waking up periodically because I couldn’t ignore my own terrible odour.”

A girl, who Geralt was pretty sure was called Chloe, snorted. “Being a witcher kind of sounds like it sucks.”

“It does,” said Geralt.

“Then why do it?”

“It’s what I’m qualified to do.” Geralt stifled a yawn and rubbed his eyes, dragging his legs out from under the table. It was about time he headed off and found a quiet alleyway in which to sleep. “It's been fun, but I’d best be going. Getting late.”

“Wait.” Richard jumped up after him and pressed a bottle of bourbon, a packet of chips, and a plastic wrapped slice of cake into his hands. “Take these. I’m guessing you aren’t eating noodles because you’re drowning in cash.”

Geralt dropped the food into his plastic bag and awkwardly slotted the bottle into one of his potion pouches. “Thanks.”

“It’s no problem,” said Richard, offering a lopsided smile. Geralt smiled back – a nice smile, small and warm. He didn’t often have reason to smile at people, so it almost felt out of place on his lips. 

Uncoordinated as his movements were, it took him several minutes to tie his bag and get all his weapons back over his shoulders. They seemed heavy as weights as he heaved himself up off the ground and headed down the dimly lit street. For someone in his situation, he was in an unusually good mood. He’d heard that alcohol was a depressant, but it always managed to sooth his woes, and the pleasant company had while getting absolutely blitzed had certainly helped. It was always nice to be reminded that not everyone hated him on principle.

He rubbed his eyes and tried to focus his gaze on a nearby alleyway. It was hard to see where you were going when your vision was spinning in a slow circle. Every step he took in its approximate direction was slow and halting, and it didn't look as though he was getting any closer to his destination despite feeling the terrain change under his feet. Perhaps he should have asked one of the kids to guide him somewhere safe. Too late to ask now. He’d probably collapse before he could backtrack.

He didn’t notice the headlights in time to evade the vehicle barrelling toward him. A dull pain blossomed in his leg and he toppled over, slamming into the asphalt hard enough to bloody his nose and smash the bottle of bourbon he’d been gifted. He groaned, writhed, rubbed his leg, and raised his head just enough to see that he’d been hit by a red Lamborghini. Some rich asshole, no doubt, and Geralt knew immediately there was no possibility of getting a new bottle of bourbon out of them. Groaning, he lifted himself from the ground and picked up his plastic bag, hobbling for the sidewalk.

“Hey, wait a second!” A man had leapt out the car and run after him. “I’m terribly sorry, sir, are you alright?”

Geralt turned to frown at them. It was an old man. Black hair with hints of grey, black eyes, pale skin, and muttonchops. He didn’t seem to groom himself very well, which was surprising for a rich guy.

“’M fine,” he slurred, rubbing his thigh. He didn’t think anything had been broken, though it would likely bruise. “Don’t have to worry about me suing you. Got neither the money nor desire.”

The man steadied him with his hand. Geralt was too inebriated to brush him away. “Your eyes. You’re a witcher.” The man’s other hand caught his chin, tilting his head up. “An incredibly inebriated one.”

“Mhmm.”

The man glanced down at his leg. “Does that hurt?”

“A bit. You got some ice in that car? You know, from the…” Unable to locate the word he was looking for, Geralt mimicked drinking wine.

The man shook his head. “I’m afraid not. I do not drink alcohol, so I’ve no need for such a feature.”

“All old men drink alcohol. It’s tradition.”

“Not this particular old man.” Strong hands ushered him toward the vehicle. “Come, I’ll take you home, least you walk in front of another car.”

“You can’t.” Geralt tired to resist him to little effect.

“Pardon?”

“You can’t drive me home,” said Geralt.

The man appeared slightly offended. “Is that commentary on my driving? I remind you that I was not the one that wandered drunkenly into a dark street.”

“That’s not what I meant,” said Geralt, faintly amused by the man’s offence. “I’m a vagabond. No home. You can escort me to the alleyway over there, if you insist on taking me where I'm intending to spend the night, but getting in your car would be pointless.” Even if the seats did look a great deal more comfortable the chilly bricks that awaited him. 

“Ah, I see.” The man continued guiding him to his car regardless. “I’ve a spare room I’d be more than happy to lend you. I’ve many, in fact. More than one individual could ever need.”

Geralt squinted at him. “Who are you?”

“Oh, my apologies. I am Emiel Regis.”

Geralt had heard that name before, in newspapers and on television. He was the CEO of something – Geralt couldn’t remember exactly what, and he vaguely recalled that he been embroiled in a scandal recently. Something about him being an alcoholic, which was strange, considering what the man had just told him.

He tried to enter the back of the car when the car was within reach, but Regis steered him around to the passenger side and pressed him into the seat. With his guns, blades, and baggie of food in his lap, Geralt made himself comfortable. The seats were really as soft as the advertisements for Lamborghini’s suggested.

Regis slid into the driver’s seat and handed Geralt a handkerchief.

“What’s this for?” he asked, arching an eyebrow.

“Your nose is bleeding.”

“Oh.” Geralt wiped away the smudge of blood beneath his nose and didn’t see Regis surreptitiously lick his lips. Once done, he scrunched up the sullied handkerchief and shoved it into a back pocket.

Regis pulled off the curb. “So, you’re having trouble finding work, are you?”

“Is that a prelude to telling me you have work for me?”

“I’m afraid not,” said Regis. “And nor do I have any contacts who could get you work, unfortunately.”

Geralt shrugged. “It was worth asking.” At least he’d be able to use the phone for free. Maybe he’d make a call too Kaer Morhen too, see if he could travel with Vesemir for a few weeks. Vesemir always knew the best spots to find work.

“We’re experiencing a peaceful period,” said Regis. “But who knows. Another month or two and we may be in dire need of your services again. The security of the wall isn’t infallible.”

“It probably would be, if they had elves working it,” said Geralt, closing his eyes and leaning his head into the window. The gentle thrum produced by the vehicle relaxed him.

“That would require elves not to be treated as second class citizens, and I don’t think we’ve quite reached that point yet.” Regis’ voice was soft and soothing. Geralt distantly noted that he didn’t recognise the accent Regis was speaking in. Sort of Rivian, with a hint of Nilfgaard and Redania. “But we are making progress, slowly and steadily, courtesy of our younger generations,” Regis continued. “I find most younger folk have enough sense to recognise that elves are no less deserving of rights than they themselves are. People are just wonderful, in that way. Changing sociologically over time, and in such vast numbers. I can’t say the same for, well…”

Geralt, only half listening, fluttered a hand. “Your generation isn't so bad. Your people invented McDonalds.”

“Oh, yes,” said Regis, chuckling. “Quite an achievement. Perhaps you’d like to drop into one for a snack?”

Geralt peeled open an eye. “Really?”

“Of course. This period of inebriation is perfect for binge eating. You may have whatever you wish. A couple of crowns isn’t going to make any kind of dent in my wallet.”

Geralt hadn’t eaten fast food in such a long time that he couldn’t remember what items they had on their menu. He did, however, recall happy meals and sundaes, and both of those things appealed to him. “Two happy meals and a caramel sundae.”

“Just one?”

“I can have more?”

“As many as you want.”

“Three.”

Regis cast him a tight-lipped smile. “Three it is. And I’ll grab a few burgers, as you’ll no doubt want something greasy to eat for breakfast.”

Lady luck must have been smiling upon him. In regards to pleasant company, anyway. The money issue was still there and would still be there when his alcohol induced euphoria receded, but he hadn’t been the recipient of such kindness in a long time. He rubbed at his face, trying to subdue the dopey smile threatening to split his lips. It was hard to maintain one’s composure when drunk.

They turned into the nearest McDonald’s drive-thru and Geralt immediately started to salivate at the delicious scents wafting in through the window. Regis handed all the food to him and he shoved a handful of chips into his mouth the moment he managed to wrestle a packet out of a happy meal. He’d received three toys – a tiny, plastic princess tiara, a little sceptre that glowed when you shook it, and a bunch of plastic grapes that played festive music when you pressed in the stem. Toussaint themed. There was a little girl out there that might enjoy these, so he decided to stow them in his plastic bag for later.

Regis eyed him while he licked salt and oil off his fingers. “You’re enjoying the food, I take it?”

“Very much so,” said Geralt, digging into a burger.

Regis drummed his fingers on his steering wheel. “I’m glad. You looked like you could do with a hearty meal.”

“I attended a barbecue earlier,” said Geralt. “Was still hungry after, though.”

“That tends to happen, when one doesn’t receive consistent meals.”

Geralt shrugged. “I manage with one or two a day.”

“You shouldn’t have to.” While stopped at a red light, Regis took the opportunity to examine him. “You’re Geralt of Rivia, correct? I don’t wish to presume, but you do have the suitable hair colour. Or lack thereof.”

“Just Geralt.” He’d dropped the ‘of Rivia’ when such additions to one’s name had fallen out of use. Sometimes he used Geralt Bellegarde, if a potential client looked like the sort that would need a surname to take him seriously, but very rarely. The government permitted him to be mononymous.

“Ah, so you are the famed witcher!” Regis looked back to the road. “I heard you were made quiet wealthy following your night with the striga. Wherever did that money go?”

“Spent it.” For a year or so, he’d been able to live in an apartment. That had been nice, right up until he ended up late on rent because there weren’t any more high paying jobs available in Vizima. 

“On?”

“Not frivolities, if that’s what you’re thinking.” Geralt bit into his second burger, chewing and swallowing before he spoke again. “Food, water, rent. I didn’t budget as well as I should have, but I didn’t buy any crap I didn’t need.”

“Such things happen,” said Regis, nodding. “I came from humble beginnings myself. I was a simple barber, some years ago.”

“What compelled you to stop?”

“I grew ambitious. I was no longer content to live the simple, unassuming life of a barber, and decided I wished to make a difference in people’s lives.” Regis’ expression turned wistful. “Those first few years were hard, but rewarding. More than I could have ever anticipated. It was much nicer back then, before the media found me.”

“Must be a pain, having no privacy,” offered Geralt sympathetically.

“Oh, I _do_ have privacy – I simply have to fight for it. It is bothersome when my efforts aren’t quite enough, however.”

Having eaten his fill of fast food, Geralt carefully slid what was left back into the takeaway bags and squeezed himself into the corner of his seat, making room for the bags by his feet. He couldn’t help but notice how very clean the car was. He’d never owned a car himself; he was more of a motorcycle man, but what cars he’d ridden in had never been this immaculate.

“Well,” he murmured, relaxing back into his seat. “You can always buy your privacy, if worst comes to worse.”

“Not always.” Regis’ expression turned dreary. “Some can’t be convinced, either through monetary means or appealing to their better nature.”

“Not always,” agreed Geralt, recalling the gossip articles he’d skimmed about Regis on particularly slow days. They hadn’t portrayed him in a very flattering light, thought Geralt failed to see where their criticisms sourced from. Thus far, Regis had come off as a very kind, compassionate, and infinitely patient man who deserved accolades rather than reproval. Geralt might’ve had a small bias, though, seeing as Regis had just picked him up off the street, offered him lodgings, and bought him McDonalds. 

“But you are correct, for the most part,” said Regis. “I can buy means of protecting myself. Being able to employ the best lawyers in the continent helps.”

“Have you ever lost a case?” he asked, closing his eyes again and curling into the window. The gentle hum of the car, once again, began to lull him into a state of tranquillity.

“Not a single one.”

Their idle chatter continued for several more minutes, and at some point – Geralt didn’t know exactly when – he ended up falling asleep. He only woke up briefly when he felt himself being lifted and thought vaguely that it was very impressive that someone of Regis’ stature was able to carry him, then resumed his slumber the moment he was beneath warm bed sheets. He slept through Regis discarding his outer layer of clothing for him.

The first thing he did upon waking early the following morning was pick up a bucket that was sitting beside the bed and vomit. Up came burger, chips, and sausage, but he found burgers and chips in a hotbox sitting on the bedside table and was quick to replace their presence. Two fresh bottles of water sat next to it, and Geralt gulped down the contents of one of them.

Sitting up in bed and wiping the sleep out of his eyes, Geralt took a moment to survey the room he was in. The first thing he noticed was how very large it was, almost as large as his apartment in Vizima had been. It was well furnished with two built-in wardrobes, a dresser, a desk, and a bookcase. The intricate designs on the wood drew Geralt’s gaze, and he thought they looked vaguely elven… Hard to tell if they were a reproduction or the real deal, though Geralt was sure Regis could afford real elven furniture. He glanced at either side of him and spotted two very large and beautifully designed windows surrounded by lacy white curtains. They swayed gently in the soft morning wind.

When he retrieved his second bottle of water from the bedside table, Geralt spotted the corner of a note tucked beneath it. He’d been too disoriented to notice it before. He pulled it out and shook it until it unfurled, then skimmed the very neat, curving script of Emiel Regis.

_Dear Geralt,_

_I hope you slept well and don’t feel too ill when you wake. I’ve left water and food for you on the bedside table, and should you need more, my kitchen is available to you. I have a cook that will fulfil any requests you make, or if you prefer to cook yourself, my utilities and ingredients are at your disposal._

_The clothes you were wearing last night are currently being cleaned. There are fresh clothes in the bathroom, sitting on a chair. Have as many baths or showers as you like, for however long you like. I imagine you could use a good soak._

_If you need anything that my cook and maids can’t give you, you will find the other resident of this house, Dettlaff, in the study. The study is the room below yours. Go downstairs, turn to your left, and head three doors down. He will help you with anything you ask, though I caution you to be polite; he does not respond well to rudeness and I’d rather not come home to find you’ve been kicked out without my consent._

_Have a nice day, Geralt. All going well, I shall see you before noon._

_Best regards,_

_Emiel Regis._

After skimming through once more, Geralt folded the note and placed it back on the bedside table. A long, hot bath would go a long way in making him feel less hungover. He rose from his bed and made a feeble effort to tidy it, then hobbled his way across the room and through the door Regis had indicated led to the bathroom.

He shouldn’t have been surprised that the bathroom was almost as large as the bedroom, but he stood there for a few seconds, drinking it all in, before the ability to move returned to him.

It didn’t look like any bathroom he had ever seen before. The floor tiles were a glossy, deep-sea green that shimmered pleasantly on the white of the walls. They were warm, rather than cool under his feet. He glanced at the sink, and it was so vast that it could have passed for a child’s bath. The shower to its left was twice as big and sectioned off by slates of glass. He stepped further into the room and saw a large, square bathtub set into the opposite wall; there were so many buttons on a control panel above it that Geralt was at a loss for where one was supposed to begin.

He sat down on the edge of the ceramic tub and examined the figures and text stencilled neatly onto each button. There were none labelled ‘hot’ or ‘cold’. He tried pressing one that displayed the picture of running water, but all that did was make the tub produce an odd grinding sound that startled him into standing.

Unwilling to concede defeat, Geralt left to find this ‘Dettlaff’ Regis had mentioned. Just as Regis has said, he located the man one floor below, in the study, and knocked on the open door. Bright, almost white blue eyes turned on him. The man was sitting at a desk, writing something in a leather journal with – ridiculously enough – a quill.

“Yes?” The man looked him up and down, arching an eyebrow. “Why do you come to me in your underwear? Regis left you fresh clothes.”

Geralt self-consciously folded his arms. “The bath doesn’t work.”

“It doesn’t work, or you don’t know how to work it?”

“Guess.”

The mans mouth twitched, the slightest hint of a smile. “There’s an instruction manual in the bathroom drawer, but I shall set it up for you, this time.” He removed a pouch from the desk drawer before approaching Geralt. “Before I do that, I have this to give you.”

Geralt accepted the pouch and peeled open the top. Inside were several large, shiny coins. He picked them up and startled at the sight of ‘100’ printed into the gold.

“Regis asked me to drop by the ATM this morning,” said Dettlaff. “I hope that will suffice for any needs you have this week.”

“This week?” Geralt dropped the coins back into the pouch and coiled his hand tight around it. “Does he intend to give me more next week? I haven’t done anything to earn this kind of payment. Pretty sure he said he didn’t have work for a witcher.”

“But he does have work for a handsome young man,” replied Dettlaff.

Geralt’s eyes narrowed a fraction. “Are you telling me-“

“He’s buying your company,” said Dettlaff, placing a hand on the small of his back and pressing him out into the hall. Dettlaff steered him toward the stairs. “I advised against it, but he’s rather smitten with you. You can always leave, of course, if you don’t reciprocate his interest. He will give you enough money to live comfortably until you find work.” He spoke as though this wasn’t the first time he’d had this conversation with someone.

Geralt squeezed his fingers around the pouch, feeling the hard edges of the coins through the silky fabric. It was enough money to sustain him for far longer than a week. “Does he do this often?”

“No.” They ascended the steps. “But he is a charitable man. He has not invited you here solely for your…” His gaze flicked up and down Geralt’s form. “Physical appeal.”

There was interest in the way Dettlaff was looking at him. Geralt pretended not to notice, engrossing himself in fiddling with his pouch of money.

“He isn’t trying to disrespect you,” continued Dettlaff. “That money, depending on your perspective, can be either a gift or an exchange. It’s entirely up to you. And again, you always have the option to leave.”

“I’ll stay.” There wasn’t anywhere else he could go. Except to Dandelion's place, perhaps, but the man had his own monetary troubles to deal with and he didn’t want to exacerbate them if he had the option.

“Not the first time I’ve heard that,” said Dettlaff, pushing open his bathroom door and guiding him over to the tub. “I hope, for his sake, you’re being honest.”

Geralt seated himself on the edge of the tub while he waited for Dettlaff to finish setting it up. “Hasn’t had much luck in the past?”

“No.” Hot water spilled out of the faucet. It was scented. Lavender. “No,” said Dettlaff again, his voice dropping in volume. “I don’t expect this one to last, either, but one can hope.”

“Who are you?” asked Geralt. “Friend? Family?”

“A brother, of sorts. You could say I adopted him into my family, and he his.”

Geralt dipped his hand into the water. Nice and hot. “Tell me about him.”

“What would you like to know?”

“What kind of company he’s a CEO of, for starters.”

For the following half an hour, Dettlaff fulfilled his request with exceptional detail. He told Geralt all about Regis’ medical and diagnostic laboratory business, what Regis did on a day to day basis, how much money he made, the friends he had, the family he’d lost, his hobbies and interests, and a plethora of other things that Geralt only partially absorbed into memory. Partway through their conversation, he unabashedly removed his underwear and dropped into the water; it took Dettlaff a moment to recover his wits and continue with his line of thought.

Geralt had to admit, the overt interest Dettlaff displayed was flattering. As was the knowledge that Regis shared a similar interest. Generally he had to _pay_ people to sleep with him, so it was always nice when he encountered people who could look past his slitted eyes and white hair.

He shampooed and conditioned his hair while Dettlaff prattled on about Regis’ interest in calligraphy. It was one Dettlaff shared, thanks to Regis’ enthusiasm, and they had a room in their mansion dedicated to Regis’ vast collection of ink sets and quills (according to Dettlaff, he had well over a hundred ink sets and even more quills). Geralt, who had never so much as held a quill, couldn’t understand the appeal, but he nodded along anyway.

When the water started to cool, Dettlaff twisted a knob and the ceramic turned lovely and warm. Whoever had invented this bathtub deserved some sort of humanitarian award.

“Do you have a shaving kit?” he asked, interrupting a spiel about calligraphy.

Dettlaff blinked, leaned back on his hunches, and glanced at the sink. “We should.” He rose to start sifting through the contents of the drawers. “Give me a moment.”

Geralt hadn’t had the opportunity to shave in _weeks_. He’d run out of his cheap plastic shavers last month and hadn’t wanted to waste any money on replacing them. The consequence was a thick, grimy, itchy beard that he’d wanted to be rid of the moment it grew in. Sometimes beards were nice; most of the time, however, he didn’t get to bathe enough to make having one a pleasant experience.  

Dettlaff returned with a straight razor and a pot of shaving cream. “Would you like me to shave you?”

Geralt shifted so he was braced against the opposite side of the tub, where Dettlaff stood. “Haven’t used a straight razor in a while. Go ahead.”

The man gingerly sat himself beside Geralt’s head. Dipping his fingers into the cream, he spread it over the tight bristles on Geralt’s chin, jaw, and upper lip. “Forgive me from deviating from the topic of Regis, but there’s a curiosity I want to address,” Dettlaff murmured as he wiped his fingers clean on a towel and readied the blade. “I have heard that Geralt of Rivia has empathy for monsters. Is that true?”

Geralt didn’t correct the use of his old title. “I prefer not to kill monsters, when possible,” he replied, careful not to jostle the straight razor as Dettlaff drew it over the sharp jut of his jaw. “Sometimes talking does the job.”

“Most of your brethren wouldn’t try talking.” Another line along his jaw, scraping away the remnants of beard there.

Geralt snorted softly. “You’ve met most witchers and asked them, have you?”

“No, but that is the impression one is given by the information that is circulated.”

“Honesty isn’t common virtue in the people that spread that information.”

“I don’t disagree,” conceded Dettlaff. He wiped the straight razor clean on a towel and tilted Geralt’s head back with a thumb and forefinger, placing the blade on his cheek. He dragged it slowly, slowly down, taking a considerable amount of hair with it. "But I am also sure there is a grain of truth, given what your profession is."

While Dettlaff was cleaning the razor, Geralt took the opportunity to reply. “Asking for any reason in particular?”

“Yes,” said Dettlaff. He lowered the razor back to Geralt's skin and scraped away the remainder of the hair on Geralt’s cheek. “But I feel no need to tell you at this period. Perhaps later.”

Geralt didn’t know what to make of that, so he shrugged. He wasn't about to press too hard for details when there was a blade inches from his throat. “Alright.”

Dettlaff tilted Geralt’s head around and started on the other side of his face. His fingers were startlingly cool on Geralt’s freshly shaved skin. “How long has it been since you had a bath?" asked Dettlaff. "This beard is filthy.”

“’Bout a month,” admitted Geralt. He did try to at least clean his beard, but try was the operative word here. It was hard to wash properly without access to hot water and soap.

“Perhaps, while you are here, I shall lend you a straight razor and teach you how to use it," said Dettlaff.

“I know how to use a straight razor.”

One of Dettlaff’s thumbs brushed along his jaw, feeling for lingering bristles. “We’ll see.” He reapplied the razor to Geralt’s face and flicked off what little hair remained. “It will have to be later, of course. Breakfast awaits you in the kitchen.” Dettlaff’s fingers pressed gently to his top lip, pulling it down so he could remove the last traces of hair from his philtrum.

“Just ate burgers,” said Geralt, once Dettlaff had withdrawn.

“And you believe burgers from a fast food restaurant are a suitable breakfast?” Dettlaff reached into the water, between Geralt’s legs, and retrieved the wash cloth there. Geralt jumped slightly at the brazenness.

“No,” said Geralt dumbly, then pressed his lips together so he wouldn’t inadvertently suck in soapy water while Dettlaff cleaned his face.

“Go downstairs and have breakfast,” said Dettlaff, discarding the wash cloth in favour of rising to clean the razor. He stood bent over the sink, and it was only then that Geralt noticed the only thing the room lacked was a mirror. Ridiculous. All that money spent and they’d forgotten to install a mirror.

He finished cleaning and stepped out of the tub, retrieving a towel from the rack and wrapping it tight around his waist. The air in the bathroom was pleasantly warm. There must have been a heater going somewhere, because mornings in Novigrad were never this warm.

“I expect you’ll want to clean your teeth after, yes?” asked Dettlaff, dropping the shaving kit back into its respective drawer. “You’ll find some toothbrushes and paste in the bottom drawer here.” He gave the indicated drawer a tap with his knuckles. Geralt made note of it. “I shall see you downstairs.” With that said, Dettlaff made his departure.

Geralt used another towel to dry his hair, back, and shoulders. It was a quicker process than it normally would have been, courtesy of the hidden heater (or heater _s_ ; it was impossible to tell how many there were, but there was definitely at least one). When he was adequately dry, he retrieved the clothes Regis had left out for him and looked them over. Jeans, a black button up shirt, underwear, and a singlet, all in his size. Almost looked as though Regis'd had a tailor measure him in his sleep… he dismissed that thought with a scoff, pulling on the underwear and jeans, which were a touch too tight around his thighs and ass.

The kitchen was just as beautiful as the rest of the mansion, large and swathed in shades of green. Geralt ran his hand along a marble counter on his way to the kitchen table, where Dettlaff and Regis were currently sitting. Regis had a dark cup of coffee in hand and was flicking through what looked like an earnings and synopsis packet. Dettlaff, meanwhile, was picking bits and pieces from a breakfast buffet sitting in the middle of the table and placing them delicately on his plate.

Geralt sat in the only other seat with a plate, the one directly beside Regis and across from Dettlaff, and gazed at the breakfast buffet in awe. This was more breakfast food he’d ever seen in one place and far more interesting than the usual fare of sausage, bacon, toast, and eggs. Geralt had no clue as to the origin of some of the foods being presented. He knew a few from Nilfgaard, Skellige, and Toussaint, but he couldn’t place the rest of them.

He selected what looked like a very large, thick, yellow pancake and dragged it onto his pate with the tongs, spreading some butter on it just in case it wasn’t as tasty as it looked.

“Geralt,” said Regis, finally seeming to notice his presence. He smiled at him. “Apologies for missing you earlier this morning – I had some documents I needed to pick up, as you can see.” He gestured to the mess of papers in front of him. “Did you sleep alright? Do you need a Tylenol?”

“Haven’t got a headache.” He usually, thankfully, recovered fast from his hangovers. He seemed to have had enough to drink and eat last night not to feel too terrible. “Thank you,” he added, cutting into his strange yellow pancake with a steak knife. By the look Dettlaff was giving him, he wasn’t using the right utensils for the job, but he figured it didn’t much matter since they all ended up in the same place anyway.

He forked a portion of his yellow pancake into his mouth. It tasted like someone had made it entirely out of corn.

“Do you have anywhere you need to be today, Geralt?” asked Regis, sipping his coffee. “I can have my chauffeur take you there, if need be.”

Geralt ate another portion of his pancake before he replied. It was actually pretty good. “Haven’t got anything on the agenda.”

“Perhaps you’d like to go for a walk and swim, then?”

“Swimming in this weather? We’ll freeze.”

“I have a heated pool.”

Of course he did. “Alright.” He put a piece of sausage on his pancake to see how it would taste – _wonderful_. He would definitely have to eat this again. “Don’t have any swimming trunks, though,” he added after a moments thought. “I’ll have to swim in the nude.”

Regis swallowed his coffee a little too fast and ended up coughing into a fist. Geralt hid a smile by ducking his head over his next morsel of pancake.

“Well, it _is_ entirely private,” said Regis once he had caught his breath. “If you wish to swim in the nude, that is your prerogative. I could, however, have some swimming trunks acquired for you.”

“See how I feel when we get there.”

Regis cleared his throat and stared very intently at his coffee mug. “Very well.”

Finishing off the last of his meal, Geralt grabbed himself a few slices of bacon. “Where’re we going to walk?” he asked, and then glanced at Dettlaff. “You coming too?”

“Hm?” Dettlaff looked up from the fried tomato slice he was fiddling with on his plate. He looked to regret selecting it, but didn’t seem to want to throw it away while people were watching. “Oh, if you’d like.”

“We’ll walk through the grounds,” answered Regis. “They have quite the history. I’ll be happy to regale you with it while we walk.” He tilted his head at Dettlaff. “And you’ll have a few stories to share as well, won’t you?”

“More recent ones,” Dettlaff clarified. He abandoned his meal to drink what looked like some very watered down cranberry juice. “Regis is the historian.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” said Regis, pausing to drink the last of his coffee. “I’ve simply taken a healthy interest in our living space.” He leaned across the table, toward Geralt. “I’m sure you’ll be enthralled, Geralt. Few places have as captivating a history as this building and its grounds. It was built by the elves some-“

“When we’re outside,” interrupted Geralt. Not that he didn’t want to hear the elven history of this place, but he didn’t want Regis to exhaust the topic too soon. There was only so much history Geralt could listen to in one day.

They finished off breakfast and Regis made Geralt a very sweet, milky mocha before they left for their walk. The history of the place was just as interesting as Regis had claimed it would be. It was a tale of beauty, and loss, and eventual occupation, and Geralt found himself listening more closely with each new step in the story. Dettlaff’s stories, while by no means boring, weren’t nearly as enthralling, but Geralt enjoyed them all the same. By the time they had finished their tales, they had been walking for a good hour and a half and the early morning chill had finally receded. He let Regis guide him into a beautiful lush garden and sat down between Regis and Dettlaff on a stone bench, beginning his own modest, but reasonably entertaining story about the Striga of Vizima.

* * *

Dettlaff didn't join them in the swimming pool. He seemed to recognise Geralt's interest in doing more than just 'swimming' and likely hadn't wanted to interfere. To be honest, Geralt wouldn’t have been opposed to his company. He quite liked both Regis and Dettlaff, and more always was merrier, in regard to what he intended to do.

Geralt hadn’t been intimate with anyone in a very long time. Nearing a year, now. That witchers were base creatures who fucked any woman they saved had no basis in reality; Geralt wasn’t nearly promiscuous enough to sleep with every woman he saved, and even if he had been, he never managed to find these women who were willing to fling themselves at their saviour the moment they were out of harm’s way anyway.

While Regis – a man – wouldn’t usually be his first choice in partner, Geralt really couldn’t do much better than a multi-millionaire philanthropist, so he wasn't about to complain. It helped that Regis was handsome, in an unconventional sort of way.

He swam up to the edge of the pool to watch Regis undress. The man carefully folded each article of clothing and placed them on a chair. Geralt, meanwhile, had dropped his own clothes haphazardly on the floor at the other end of the pool. He didn’t have the patience to neatly fold his own clothes.

Regis had a nice body. Not quite as built as his own, but thick and lean, with just a hint of a soft paunch at his belly. He was quite a bit hairier than Geralt, who had sparse, white hair that blended with the pallor of his skin. His was dark and thick and Geralt was immediately possessed with the desire to rake his fingers through it. The moment Regis had descended into the water, Geralt moved to do just that.

“Not yet,” said Regis softly, catching his fingers in a hand. He gave them a gentle squeeze. “Before we do anything of that nature, there is something I feel I should unveil.”

“Oh?” Geralt tried to lean closer, to claim a chaste kiss, but Regis just batted his face away with a chuckle.

“Geralt,” began Regis. “How do you feel about monsters that blend into society? Who don’t give into their baser instincts?”

Geralt raised his brows. “You’re not about to tell me you’re a doppler, are you?” 

“No,” said Regis, and then, quite casually, he added, “I’m a vampire.”

Geralt was silent for a long moment. “...Are you pulling my leg?”

“No. I am a vampire, Geralt.”

Geralt stared at him at length, looking for some hint that Regis was what he claimed to be. His skin was very pale and his nails unusually long. He didn't - he didn't cast a shadow without his clothes on, Geralt realised. 

“A higher vampire?” he asked slowly. He had to be. Higher vampires were the only kinds of vampires that didn't set off his medallion.

“Yes.” Regis finally released his hand, dragging his fingers up the length of Geralt’s arm. “I’m sure you’re aware that higher vampires typically do not drink blood. I am one of those who abstain. I have not touched a drop in many years.”

Geralt hesitated, but he didn’t push Regis’ exploring hand away. He may have attacked Regis when he'd been younger and less experienced, but he'd been hunting monsters for a very long time, now, and he had encountered many that were more honorable and deserving of life that some humans. He wouldn't attack Regis without reason. “There was an article on you that mentioned alcoholism," he said, trying to keep his tone neutral.

“A former friend of mine,” began Regis bitterly. “Decided it would be the height of humour to tell the media I had been a drunkard in my youth. While that is true, I have not been young in a _very_ long time.” His hand slipped up into Geralt’s hair, carding through the milky locks with a tenderness that made it impossible not to melt. “I have spent the last two centuries atoning for my terrible conduct, and I have consequently built my life into something I can be proud of.”

“Why tell me?” He leaned his head into Regis’ palm. “You’re endangering yourself. I’m a witcher.”

“I told you because I believe in the good of human kind. I believe you are willing to see sapient monsters as your equals, and I believe you would rather see us succeed than fail, as I have.” He smiled warmly. “Monsters are becoming our grocers, our real estate agents, our accountants. They’re integrating into human society. Not all of them identify themselves as monsters, but within time… perhaps one day, I will be able to announce my true identity without needing fear the loss of all I have worked so hard to achieve.”

Geralt folded his fingers over Regis’ chest, tracing them along his pecs. He could not argue with the points Regis made, and he did not want to. “Like to see that one day.”

“Thank you, Geralt.” Regis watched the passage of his hand. “And I apologise for not telling you before extending an invitation.”

“It’s fine. I know why you didn’t.” Had Geralt known what Regis was earlier, he may not have slipped into his car so readily.

“Regardless…” he trailed off and leaned in close, cool breath rolling over Geralt’s lips. Anticipation surged through Geralt’s bones. “May I?” he asked, brushing his mouth delicately over Geralt’s. Geralt nodded.

He kissed Geralt, then, locking their mouths together by gripping Geralt’s hair at his nape of his neck and holding him in place. Geralt allowed him to do as he pleased, opening his mouth when Regis licked insistently at his lips and groaning as he licked at Geralt’s hard palate and molars and then bit gently at his bottom lip with delightfully sharp laterals. Geralt’s back struck the cool limestone coping that encircled the pool. He braced one elbow on the tiles and threw the other over Regis’ shoulders, drawing their bodies together.

When their kiss finally broke, Geralt was panting; Regis, on the other hand, being a creature that didn’t need to breathe, only required a few seconds to recover his composure. He rested his mouth against Geralt’s jaw, the point of his nose cool against Geralt’s cheek.

“Would you be so kind as to do something for me, Geralt?” asked Regis, his voice soft with arousal. Geralt shivered at the scrape of Regis' lips over his newly shaved skin.

“What?”

“I’d like to see you pleasure yourself.” He stroked Geralt’s hair, scratching idly at his scalp. “Forgive me if that is too forward, but you are a beautiful man. If you need more time to decide, I will gladly leave you to your thoughts.”

‘Beautiful’ – not a word anyone had ever used to describe him before. It took his breath away to hear it. He didn’t know how to respond, blinking stupidly while Regis stroked him.

“Geralt?” murmured Regis, with a hint of anxiety.

He was grateful his mutations had limited his ability to blush or his embarrassment would have been much more apparent. He heaved himself up onto the rim of the pool and coiled a hand around his flaccid cock, giving it a couple of slow strokes. “Like this?” he asked, looking to Regis for direction. The man closed the distance Geralt had created and resumed dragging his fingers through Geralt’s hair, watching him with half-lidded eyes. Their foreheads jostled together.

“Just like that,” he said softly, not even sparing Geralt’s hardening cock a glance. His gaze was firmly on Geralt's face. It was intimate in a way that made Geralt squirmy and flustered, like he was a boy foraying into sex for the first time. It was silly and childish, but no one had ever done this before; his sexual acts had always been perfunctory. He’d never had someone brush their fingers through his hair or press their foreheads together or watch him while he pleased himself. It was new and strange and _wonderful_.

Regis idly stroked his hair with one hand and traced the insides of Geralt’s thighs with the other. It didn’t take Geralt long to get hard, even at the languid place he was stroking. He probably would have been able to get hard even without the physical stimulation with how pleasant Regis’ light touching and soft whispers were.

“You’re beautiful, Geralt. Exquisite.” Geralt swallowed hard at Regis’ words. “What a privilege it is to watch you do this. And you make _lovely_ sounds. Lovely, soft sounds – I hope you will allow me to listen to them more than once. I’d like to hear you moan, Geralt, perhaps around my cock, or while I’m inside you.”

Geralt bit the inside of his cheek in an attempt to last longer. It didn’t have much effect.

“Would you like that, Geralt?” asked Regis gently, watching him through his dark eyelashes. His eyes had turned the black of tar. “Would you like me to take you, Geralt? Like a vampire would, spread out on the tiles, a hand in your hair, my teeth around your throat –“ Geralt inhaled sharply. “Biting, gently, but you would feel it every time you moved.”

His muscles reflexively clenched as his pleasure peaked. He came into his hand, shuddering and groaning, his sweaty forehead dropping to Regis’ shoulder. He was held there by Regis while he rode out the last few waves of his orgasm. His hand shook minutely when he finally withdrew it from his cock and he breathed unsteadily into the junction between Regis’ shoulder and neck.

He felt Regis’ fingers gently guide his sullied hand up until it touched Regis' rough lips. The cool tongue he’d felt earlier licked away the mess he’d made, and Geralt continued hiding his face in Regis’ skin, unwilling to part with his cover when he knew he looked dazed and foolish.

When Regis had finished his task, he gently eased Geralt back into the water and leaned against him. They drifted idly through the pool.

Masturbating in front of a vampire wasn’t how he had imagined his afternoon going, but it still managed to be better than what he _had_ been imagining.

He applied chaste kisses to the cool skin next to his mouth and listened to the hitch in Regis’ breath. “You are a wonder,” said Regis lovingly, reverently, as he tilted his head down and kissed the crown of Geralt’s head. “You will stay, won’t you? Dettlaff already informed me of your decision, but I -  I’d like to be sure.”

“Call it a trial period,” murmured Geralt, finally rising from the safety of Regis’ shoulder. He brushed a palm over Regis' jaw and down the pale expanse of his neck. “If you keep on delivering as pleasant experiences as that, my decision won’t be hard.”

“Then I shall try my very best,” said Regis, unveiling his serrated teeth in a broad smile.

Geralt brushed a thumb over his lips, grazing the point of a tooth, before he withdrew to seat himself on the pool steps. He hadn’t done much swimming, but the tingling warmth of completion had overwhelmed his desire for exercise. Right now, he just wanted to sit and relax.

Regis adopted the spot directly beside him. Geralt leaned against him and guided one of Regis’ hands up into his hair, and Regis immediately understood what Geralt wanted and began to rake his fingers through the silky strands.

“I see the cat eyes aren’t the only feline features the mutations left you with.”

Geralt gave a feeble scoff, too relaxed to put any effort into it. “Closer to a snake than a cat.”

“I disagree.” Regis scratched at the back of his scalp in a way that made his nerves light up. “They should call you Chalky Cat.”

“That is the absolute worst moniker I have ever heard.”

“Milky Mouser.”

Geralt paused. “Pale Pussy.”

Regis laughed quietly. “Oh yes, perfect. That will undoubtedly strike fear into the hearts of your enemies.”

“Undoubtedly,” Geralt agreed, smiling.

They abandoned the water only when their skin began to shrivel and returned to the mansion in a fresh set of clothes; Regis had referred to them as ‘post-swim wear’, but they just looked like a t-shirt and yoga pants to Geralt. They were comfortable, in any case, and Geralt had no intention of changing out of them until it came time to sleep.

Dinner was just as sumptuous as breakfast had been, and Geralt tried four different sausages from four different countries by the end of it. Regis seemed to be bringing out all the stops for him. Trying to impress him, perhaps. Convince him to stay. He didn’t need to expend as much effort as he was, but Geralt, who had never been spoiled before and was discovering an indolent side to himself, had no desire to tell him to stop.

They spent the remainder of their evening in front of an enormous television. Or rather, they spent the evening being forced to sit in front of the television while Dettlaff showed them two documentaries about space. Apparently he was a fan of space, which made sense, as space was as far away from the human element as you could get and Dettlaff wasn’t exactly the most social of people. According to Regis, he went out as little as twice a month, and had only made one friend in his several decades of interacting with humans: a woman named Rhena, who Regis professed a dislike for after Geralt pointed out the disgruntled expression he wore while talking about her.

Midnight arrived faster than any of them expected, and they retired to their respective rooms well past the time they should have gone to sleep. Geralt, now fully able to appreciate the warmth and softness of his sheets, fell asleep within minutes of cocooning himself in them.

* * *

The following days were just as languid and pleasant as the first. He explored a different way to live, one that wasn’t fraught with daily danger and didn’t leave him on the precipice of starvation and dehydration courtesy of shit pay. He ate well and whenever he felt like eating; he slept in a comfortable, warm bed with sheets that were changed every three days; he was able to shave himself every day; he swam laps in the pool and exercised on the gym equipment Regis had bought specifically for him, and he wore fresh clothes instead of dressing in rags that he only deemed unsalvageable after developing more than one hole. Sometimes he itched to go monster hunting, just to feel the rush, the adrenaline, but that desire would melt away when Regis treated him to oil massages and expensive wines and affection.

Regis tried to give him money to spend. He refused; he didn’t feel he could take his money without having earned it, but Regis found a way to get around that: instead he would buy Geralt gifts. Thus far he’d given him a new motorbike, his own very expensive shaving kit, something called a ‘mutagenerator’ that Geralt had yet to find a use for, his own gym equipment (which he bought after Geralt had complained about having an excess of energy), and some jewellery – cufflinks, bracelets, a variety of different necklaces, and a few rings; all very intricate, but not dazzling in the way traditional jewellery was. There were no precious stones. Regis recognised that he wouldn’t wear something that ostentatious.

Geralt kept all that he was given. He couldn’t refuse gifts when they had already been purchased, after all. It would be rude and inconsiderate. And he rather liked the things Regis bought him, anyway.

The longer he remained at the mansion, the warmer Dettlaff became toward him. The cold quality that had so often permeated his voice steadily dropped away. Dettlaff didn’t trust humans. He didn’t understand them. He found them confusing and troubling and generally tried to keep away from them, but Geralt and his dear friend Rhena were an exception. Geralt met Rhena exactly once while they were eating out for lunch, and he found, much to Regis’ chagrin, that he liked her. She was a brash, stubborn young woman who endeared herself to Geralt immediately after yelling at another patron for insulting a waiter. He could understand why Regis found her unlikable, but she was unlikable in ways Geralt found relatable and fun (which probably didn’t same much for his own personality). She did seem somewhat _uneasy_ around Dettlaff, though, and Geralt didn’t quite understand why she spent her time with vampires if they intimidated her.

True to his promise, Dettlaff eventually taught him how to use a straight razor. Or re-taught him, rather, as Geralt already knew how, but had a sloppy technique (according to Dettlaff, anyway). Dettlaff taught him other things as well, like how to cook, and how to use the bath without having to ask Dettlaff for help every morning because he’d managed to press the wrong button yet again, and Geralt started to get the impression Dettlaff regarded him as something of a fledgling. A fledgling he could be affectionate with and probably would have had sex with, had Geralt offered, but a fledgling all the same.

After his first month with Regis and Dettlaff, he started sleeping in Regis’ bed. The first time it happened, he’d been a little inebriated; he’d followed Regis to his bedroom with the intention of seducing him, lay down on the bed, and promptly fallen asleep. Regis was cuddled up behind him when he awoke the following morning, his hand tangled pleasantly in Geralt’s hair, so Geralt had started sleeping in Regis’ bed instead of his own.  

Surprisingly, it took them a while to get around to having sex in that bed. Regis didn’t seem to want to rush things, perhaps worried Geralt would get the impression he was only being kept around for his own sexual gratification. Every night, provided Geralt assured him it was what he wanted, he would tease him relentlessly with rough lips and gentle touches and growled promises, and then he would stop just before they progressed beyond the point of no return. Geralt, conversely, kept on trying to hurry things up, to reach the main event, but it wasn’t until he was practically _begging_ for it that Regis finally obliged.

The vampire clipped his nails before they started. “I’ve no desire to hurt you,” he explained while coating them generously in oil. Geralt watched from the pillows, breath quickening in anticipation. He was completely bare.

“Regis, c’mon,” he mumbled, twisting his fingers into the bed sheets. “Don’t need that. Please.”

“You’ll be glad for the preparation when we start,” said Regis, reaching beneath his balls and sliding his fingers between his ass cheeks. Geralt swallowed at the slight contact and pressed toward the fingers, eager to feel them inside. “Tell me if it starts to hurt.” There was a very slight, burning pain when first they breached him, but Geralt quickly adjusted, relaxing himself to the intrusion. It didn’t feel quite as nice as he had been expecting, or hoping, but they _had_ only just started, and he was aroused enough that there was the slightest hint of pleasure regardless. He dropped his head back, trying with difficulty to keep still while Regis poured additional oil on his fingers and pressed deeper inside.

“Gotta do this for long?” he asked in a mumble.

“So impatient.” Regis clucked his tongue and eased his fingers in and out, watching Geralt’s face carefully for any indications of pain. “How does it feel?”

“Strange.”

“Painful?”

“No.” The fingers worked deeper, then receded – deeper, then receded. More oil was added. “Fingers are a lot smaller than a dick,” continued Geralt, his voice strange and soft. “Doubt they’ll help much.”

“Which is why I have this.”

Geralt looked up long enough to see Regis produce a small glass plug from the folds of the quilt. He swallowed at the sight of it and had quite a few obscene thoughts about the various ways Regis could use it on him. It needn’t be reserved just for preparation… but he didn’t have the opportunity to voice these ideas, as Regis abruptly withdrew his fingers and replaced them with the cool tip of the phallus.

“We’ll leave this in for a while,” said Regis, casting him smile that was more teeth than lips. “But not to worry: I don’t intend to leave you unstimulated in the meantime.”

Agonisingly slow, Regis eased the plug into him, and it was quite a stretch – quite a bit more than the fingers had been, and Geralt found himself involuntarily groaning and fisting his hands into the sheets. Regis had been right; he wouldn’t have been able to take a cock without preparation. As it was, his nerves were frayed and twinging and he feared this alone would overwhelm him, until the base of the plug finally settled against his ass.

The stretch had felt good. Painful, but overwhelmingly good. He almost wanted to tug the plug out just to feel it again, but Regis lowered his face to his thigh and that thought drifted away in favour of watching the vampire. He smiled against the sweaty skin there, the tips of his fangs visible behind his lips.

“Regis, wh-“

Geralt reflexively shot up when Regis dug his teeth into the inside of his thigh. Not hard; just enough to create an indent that rapidly turned a vibrant pink.

“That's gonna be a pain in the ass when I put pants on,” he growled, and Regis merely responded with a long lick to his cock. As far as apologies went, that was one of the best ones Geralt had ever received, so he dropped straight back to the pillows and allowed Regis to continue without further complaint.

“You have so many scars,” murmured Regis against the underside of his cock. He licked up to the velvety head before he continued. “I wanted to apply one of my own, and I must say: I am pleased with the result.”

Geralt made an impatient noise. “Do you have to talk while you could be giving me a blowjob?”

Regis arched his eyebrows at him, then coiled his long, nimble fingers around the base of his cock and proceeded to swallow it into his throat in a single movement. Geralt had never before wondered if vampires had gag reflexes, but he knew now they most certainly didn’t. He jerked so hard that he bumped his head into the headboard and let out a sound that was, much to his embarrassment, rather like a squeak. The plug shifted inside him and the surge of pleasure that resulted turned that humiliating sound in a long, drawn out moan.

Over four hundred years of life had apparently given Regis time to perfect his oral technique, because the way he sucked and bobbed and squeezed at parts of Geralt’s anatomy that Geralt hadn’t known to be so sensitive rendered Geralt dazed and breathless. He was only vaguely aware that he was making sound through the haze that had enveloped his mind. When Regis sucked hard at the head of his cock, he involuntarily arched off the bed, bringing Regis’ lips to his pelvis, and whimpered as Regis caught him by the hips and eased him back down. He held firmly on as he brought Geralt’s cock into the back of his throat once more.

Geralt wanted desperately to see what Regis looked like with his cock in his mouth, and so brought himself up onto shaking elbows and glanced at the lowered head of the vampire. Dark eyes stared back at him; Regis had been watching him this entire time. Geralt shivered. He drank in the hint of red in the man gaze, the way his cheeks hollowed as he sucked, the hair spilling over his neck. His gaze drifted to Regis’ hands and he hissed as the nails that Regis hadn’t cut bit into his skin, drawing long pink welts into it.

Regis growled, and he felt it reverberate through him. He bit his teeth over a gasp, twisting his fingers into the sheets, squeezing his eyes shut, so close to completion that pre-cum gathered at the slit of his cock – and then Regis suddenly withdrew, his fingers wound tight around the base of his cock to prevent Geralt from finishing. Once the tensing and shivering had subsided, Geralt whined low in his throat and glared at Regis.

“Not just yet.” Regis circled the base of the plug still deep inside Geralt with a thumb. Geralt bit his lip. “Onto your stomach, Geralt. Put a pillow under your hips.”

The commanding note in his voice immediately subdued Geralt’s frustration. He awkwardly turned himself onto his side and slowly lowered his stomach to the mattress. Clenching his teeth, as well as around the plug, he raised his hips and slid one of the pillows beneath them. Regis made an appreciative sound behind him.

“Beautiful,” murmured Regis, and Geralt was glad Regis couldn't see how his face contorted. The vampire ran his palms over Geralt's generous swell of buttocks and up his back, touching every bump and crevice that Geralt displayed to him. “Beautiful,” he said again, and Geralt snorted. “I am not the kind to lie, my dear. You are beautiful. Every part of you. If I could stay like this forever, simply enjoying the sight of you…” Regis curled over him and pressed a kiss to the shell of his ear. “But I won't. Are you ready for me?”

Geralt raised his hips enough to grind his ass against Regis’ arousal. That, he suspected, would be answer enough.

“Good.” Regis reached down and removed the plug from him. When he reached the widest part of it, Geralt buried his face into the sheets to muffle a soft cry. It came free with a wet sound and was deposited on the side of the bed, and within seconds the head of Regis’ cock was brushing against him instead, hard and surprisingly cool. Cool, just like the rest of Regis. He didn’t quite know how vampire physiology worked, but apparently they didn’t need a strong blood flow in order to maintain an erection.

Regis finally slid into him, slowly and with care. Perhaps too much, as Geralt was the one to close the final few inches between them, pressing back until Regis was fully sheathed. The stretch was a little bit uncomfortable, but being a witcher, Geralt was more than used to discomfort, and it was quick to transition into pleasure when Regis started thrusting in a rhythmic way that rubbed consistently at his sweet spot.

Regis adjusted him as he thrust. Grabbed him by the hip and pulled him up, then slid his palm to the small of Geralt’s back and pressed him into an arch. Geralt didn’t quite understand what he was trying to do until one position resulted in his body jolting and a groan tumbling unbidden from his lips. Regis continued to move, increasing his speed, and Geralt was suddenly sweating and radiating warmth and pushing back to increase the delectable pressure building in his pelvis. Regis caught him by the forearms for a little more stability and Geralt could have cried for how _good_ it felt when Regis next slammed his hips to his ass.

The sounds Regis were making weren’t human. He growled low and feral and his grip around Geralt’s forearms tightened, but Geralt couldn’t bring himself to care at all because every part of him had turned hot and hypersensitive. He could feel everything, from the sweat dripping steadily down his thighs, to each individual hair follicle on his head. He cried out each time Regis hit his prostate, completely involuntarily, and any concerns he had about being heard evaporated like ethanol in a killing jar.  

He was helpless to do anything but groan and pant into the sheets while Regis slammed into him. He couldn’t even grab his own cock, and soon found he didn’t even need to; after a particularly vigorous thrust, he arched up off the mattress and ejaculated onto his stomach and thighs in thick, messy ropes. His thighs shook and clenched until he was empty, and then he fell boneless in Regis’ grip, held up just long enough for Regis to fill him with a strange coolness that leaked down his thighs and pooled at his knees.

A long time passed before the vampire ceased moving and lay down on top of him, breathing hard. Geralt could see the hint of a pointed ear in the corner of his eye. It was gone by the time he turned to get a proper look.

"Don't think I..." Geralt took an unsteady breath. "Don't think I've ever been this happy about having a sore ass."

Regis chuckled. 

They didn’t leave the bed for the rest of the day, and no one came to disturb them.

They had sex almost daily following their first romp. Geralt suspected, after finding himself face down and panting into a pillow for the ninth time in one week, that he was becoming a little too complacent; on the other hand, Regis had made it clear by that point that he enjoyed taking the initiative, so he didn't feel terribly guilty about lying back and letting Regis do to him whatever he pleased. If he wanted to fuck Geralt? Fine. Wanted to lick every part of him? Fine. Wanted to tie him up and shove a vibrator up his ass? _More_ than fine. Geralt had, admittedly, been somewhat vanilla throughout his forty or so years of life (he didn’t know his exact age, as it hadn’t been mentioned when he’d been dropped off at Kaer Morhen), so even things as standard as toys and different types of bondage were new and exciting for him.

Regis had also started introducing a fun new category of gifts. Geralt hadn’t any idea where he was getting them, but he was _very_ impressed with the kinds of things he presented to Geralt (though sometimes they seemed more like gifts for Regis than for him). His favourite thus far were the dimeritium handcuffs, which came in handy when Regis wanted to spend hours stimulating him without running the risk of Geralt setting fire to something or inadvertently using Aard... _again_. The phallus that was the approximate size of a coke can and had ribs on it came close second, though.

Geralt knew the path would call him back eventually. But for now, he considered himself on an extended holiday.


End file.
